


see the worst of me

by almanzil



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, Dehydration, Forced Labor, Human Experimentation, Insomnia, Nazis, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Bucky Barnes, Prisoner of War, Starvation, Torture, Unethical Experimentation, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14494692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almanzil/pseuds/almanzil
Summary: The empty shell of a boy turned weapon begins to rediscover his own identity and begins his long voyage home.





	see the worst of me

It took James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes one winter to rise from being a cadet to a sergeant. He wore the three-chevron insignia with the utmost pride – he had worked long and hard at Camp McCoy to claw and scrape his way through the ranks. Being called 'Sergeant Barnes' brought him a sense of pride that no amount of extracurricular courses in school or paintings in the district's Art Show could match. Bucky had put his blood, sweat, and tears into becoming Sergeant James Barnes, more so than he had with anything else.

 

Over the months he had spent at Camp, he had developed a deep appreciation for the simple pleasures of life – he never learned to love his bed back home until they had him spend several nights sleeping on the cold floor in pouring rain, with the feet of fellow trainees on his chest with them being forced to cram, having to wake up in four hours for grueling training. If there was anything to say, Bucky had been pushed to his limits and beyond.

 

He found the days where his squadron competed with the others to be the best – a show of skills, over the same period of time and same training. Bucky came out on top, naturally, with how he had always been athletic and intelligent; he could work both smarter and harder. But Bucky never let that get to his head. He encouraged his friends, and he helped the ones who were falling behind.

 

Bucky’s only regret was that Steve wasn't there to watch him, or better, be there with him, training. The only contact he had had with Steve, his siblings, and his parents were the letters he received. Steve’s were definitely his favorite, always written in that compacted and elegant handwriting, a sharp contrast to Bucky's messy scribbling that had several teachers of his force him to redo papers because they couldn’t read his handwriting. (After much quipping from his mother and friendly teases from his younger siblings, he began to write slower and better, but Steve still told him it was chicken-scratch.) These letters, which he kept as good as he could and close to his heart, were his only connection with the outside world for the entire winter.

 

After Camp McCoy, Bucky went back to Brooklyn to have some good time in-between finally finishing his training and getting shipped off. He picked up a newspaper about the World Exposition of Tomorrow and immediately made mental plans to go with Steve for Howard Stark's presentation. He first went to his folks, where his mother burst into tears upon seeing him. She told him she was very proud of having such a son. His father gave him a pat on the shoulder and congratulations and told him to return safely because he wanted to see his son after the war. His siblings ran to him, and they all hugged him. Bucky, who had never been good at goodbyes, couldn't bring himself to say it to them. The closest he got was telling them that after the war, he would personally take them to the Grand Canyon.

 

Afterward, he went to find Steve and found him getting beaten up in an alleyway by a bully that Bucky easily chased off. It amused and angered him to see that Steve was still getting his ass kicked in alleyways, partly for the bullies' treatment of him and partly because Steve couldn’t drill the idea of running away into his thick skull. Additionally, he was both upset and proud to see that Steve had tried to enlist in the army _five times_ \- he admired Steve's dedication, but he absolutely hated the idea of losing Steve because of him trying to enlist. He almost couldn't chose between wanting Steve to get accepted or to have him stay away from the war. His double date hadn’t been as successful as he wished, what with Steve going off to try and enlist for the sixth time and Bucky trying to convince him not to once he decided that Steve stupidly compassionate heart would get him killed before the second day, but to say that Steve "ruined" it felt too harsh, so he just left mentally filed it off as half complete before he was off to get a good night’s rest for the coming days.

 

Bucky sprung up that morning feeling as energized as he had ever been. He was about to make a winter’s worth of military training worth it. He was Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038, of the 107th Infantry Regiment.

 

Shipping off to England first thing in the morning hadn’t been easy. Bucky was restless, more nervous than he thought he’d be – it was much more terrifying than Bucky would ever admit. He was drifting further from the streets of Brooklyn and closer to the warfront. A nervous tic of his, he tore his left hand through his hair and prayed silently that he would live to be able to see the day the war ended. The doubt that lingered in his mind, even in his limitless optimism, never left.

 

* * *

 

The biting cold had rested deep into Bucky's bones long before he had come nearly as far as he'd liked. While, of course, he wasn't at the top, he tended towards the front of the 107th, but not so far that he couldn't look over his shoulder and fall behind to help a struggling soldier or get a few laughs from them with Dum Dum Dugan. It was the only way Bucky could quell his worries just enough so he didn't do all of his nervous habits several times over and attract looks.

 

They had nothing more than a few days of marching and camping for the nights. When Bucky saw that one of the soldiers didn't have food if it happened to run out, Bucky went over and offered up his own, even if it meant he went hungry. Not a day went by where Bucky wasn't exceedingly appreciative of his life; living another day had never seemed so difficult to him. But every day he missed Steve and his family a little more. He hadn't taken the letters with him - he found them too special to trudge through snow and mud with him - he only had his memories. The days where he spent cheering Steve up when he was sick, or dropping his younger siblings off at school, or celebrating occasions with his family. He missed seeing Sarah Rogers, and although she was poor she had a heart of gold as bright as her son's.

 

A pang of pain went through Bucky's heart every time he thought of those he had lost, and it was even worse whenever he thought, _Maybe I won't come home at all._ The thought terrified Bucky. He wanted to go home and see his brother and sisters, his mother and father, and Steve. He knew Steve would never be able to handle Bucky getting shot dead. He knew it would break his mother's heart, draw tears from his father, and he could barely stand thinking how his siblings would take it. None of them would be fine with seeing that condolence letter. Bucky just hoped he would be able to make it home. He had lots of thoughts for his life after the war. Sometime in the few years following the end of the war, whenever it may be, he wanted to visit the Grand Canyon. He wanted to find a beautiful and loving dame to marry. He wanted to get to drive a flying car through the streets of Brooklyn. He wanted to see the country improve from what it was to something better, something not as oppressive towards women and towards people of color. He wanted to see people paying for Steve's paintings, once the compassionate and stubborn blond decided to take up drawing and painting once more. Bucky didn't want to die, not yet. He had places to see, things to say, people to meet, years to live. He couldn't die before the end of the war. He couldn't.

 

He prayed that the world would answer him.

 

* * *

 

The night the Nazis began to overpower the 107th, Bucky had never been more scared that possibly, he was going to die and never fulfill his dreams and plans. He knew there was the possibility of death, he always had; it had been drilled into his brain before he was drafted. But he had never felt the weight of it, not until now, when it was a single false step, a single second away from him. It had always frightened him, but now it was looming over him, eager to grab him and he wasn't ready to go with it. The explosions that lit up the night sky, Bucky could feel in his chest. It was obvious they were outnumbered, the Nazis would win this battle and Bucky would lose his life, and many other good men would lose theirs or get captured.

 

Gunshots rang in Bucky's ears as he ran, surrounded by fires and desperate men shooting at Nazis. He jumped down into a crater, followed by Dugan. They didn't have any way to contact reinforcements, as he quickly found out courtesy of Gabe Jones, paired with being horrifically outgunned, and already with the disadvantage of being ambushed, the battle was hopeless. Too many factors went up against Bucky for there to be faith of his survival.

 

Bucky shut the thoughts down.  _No_. If there was something he wasn't, it was a quitter, and he wasn't going to start now.

 

Bucky ducked his head at the sound of a grenade exploding, only for a split second. He couldn't give up. The least he could do was help some others retreat. He lifted his gun up again and began to fire, getting a few Nazis in his scope and shooting one in the head. To his side, Dugan was firing like mad. Just as Bucky was about to get another Nazi with his bullets, they violently jerked to the side as they dissolved into blue mist. It was just once, but Bucky lifted his head, eyes widening. Blue beams fired and in a second, a dozen more Nazis fell, with more continuously going down. As far as Bucky could see, whoever was making the Nazis disappear wasn't firing at any Allies.

 

For a second, Bucky's heart skipped - had reinforcements came even without their contact? He allowed himself to believe they had  _won_ , that he wasn't going to die. The idea was strengthed as the sounds of gunshots faded into the cheers of Allied soldiers. "They're on the run!" Bucky heard an especially enthusiastic Ally shout as he stood up, Jones and Dugan mirroring him. The soldier hadn't been wrong, the Nazis were scrambling away, over the hill, with a few blasts.

 

But something was wrong. Bucky knew it. His mouth dried, a bitter aftertaste. He could smell the urine and feces of emptying bladders and bowels from the dead bodies. He watched as a tank began to tread over to them, a low rumble. "That looks... new," Dugan commented, the tiniest shake to his voice. Bucky couldn't help but agree. His heart pounded in his chest. What kind of design was this? It didn't  _look_ like an Ally tank. Nor had he heard of the Allies making a tank capable of turning Nazis into light. Surely they would've put something of that up on the radios or signs, or maybe at the Stark Expo.

 

_Which meant-_

 

Bucky's fear set in his mind as the tank's barrel turned from the direction of the fleeing Nazis to the 107th.

 

_this was no Allied tank._

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky had known it was going to be bad to be locked in a weapons facility run by the enemy, but he never expected it to be so hard on his conscience. He realized rather quickly that he was building weapons, ones that would be used to slaughter his allies. He was forced to work. It would be too painful if he refused. Bucky stopped doing what he was supposed to, once, and the guard shot him on the spot. He was lucky the bullet missed anything vital, otherwise, he wasn't sure he would be able to recover under such wretched conditions.

 

Hauling materials around and being ordered to connect them, became difficult, exhausting. And it became mentally straining, especially in the first week. Several soldiers he had worked with had been killed in the battle and each one was another thorn in Bucky's heart. He hated knowing that brave men had been killed because of the ambush.

 

Any time he could squeeze it in, Bucky prayed that the brave young soldiers who had died rested peacefully and that he and other Allied POWs would be able to make it out alive and intact. As these thoughts went through his brain, he realized that he was glad, for once, that Steve was not there with him. He couldn't imagine Steve's frailty would let him live more than a week in the horrid conditions he was currently under. Even he was beginning to give in, as hard as it was to admit.

 

And while Bucky tried his hardest to steer clear of Colonel Lohmer, it seemed that the officer was always there when Bucky was too tired or too stubborn to continue working efficiently. He learned to fear that cruel, merciless look in Lohmer's eyes, the way his lips upturned in a sadistic smile, the baton he would-

 

_Don't think about it, Bucky._

Bucky had never felt so  _weak_ and  _insignificant_. He had known fear, but not quite like when it came to Colonel Lohmer. The vicious beatings that taught him the difference between the leather of whips and the metal of a baton, experienced the pain of electric shocks, the terror of waking up strapped down to a table, lights above his head. The lack of concentration he experienced, the abdominal pain, the balance issues, the sharp aches and dull throbs. He didn't understand why this was punishment for inefficiency. It only made him work worse.

 

His thoughts became concise. So did his words. He saw the worry in Jones and Dugan's eyes as he became thinner. Weaker. But his spirits never fell. He cracked jokes, told stories, tried to help the other POWs feel better. Bucky saw a few smiles, heard a few laughs, and even if they were far apart, it made him feel better. Sleepness nights, courtesy of his developing insomnia, crawled on slowly, shortly, and for once Bucky was grateful he had the training to sleep on the ground rather than a bed. He had heard some of the prisoners whispering amongst themselves. The next night they told him they were planning an "accident" to try and get Colonel Lohmer away from him, but it'd take a bit of time to set up. Grateful that maybe, he could be free of Lohmer, he promised to hold on long enough.

 

Not even a week later, Colonel Lohmer was dead.

 

Things didn't become  _good_ , or even  _okay_ , but it was better than with Colonel Lohmer. This Nazi organization - HYDRA, as he learned they called themselves - conducted a brief investigation and then ruled it an accident. The involved POWs gave one another pats on the back and a prisoner he couldn't name congratulated him for his resilience. To have the extra support, a group looking out for him, made Bucky feel... the word wasn't  _safe_ , but it made him feel  _safer_. He slept a little easier, and he was always chasing around, trying to help them in return. While HYDRA had not a shred of sympathy for the prisoners, only so few guards could watch the growing number of prisoners. Only one or two guards at a time.

 

A pattern he had become used to, even with the spontaneous punishments thrown in, was broken the day multiple HYDRA men were watching the prisoners, some looking as if they were doctors. It went for days, maybe weeks. Bucky couldn't see the sun, not in the concrete hell he was stuck in. He just knew that time was passing. And with every day he  _knew_ was going by, he grew more weary, more prone to collapsing.

 

They left, eventually. None of them really knew what it meant. Most of them tried to keep it out of their minds as they continued their forced labor. Bucky never knew just when it was, but he knew he had been pushed too far. He became too weak to continue. They had noticed. The time between that and waking up strapped to a table, with syringes and wires and his movement restricted and the pain in his body a tenfold stronger and the confusion, the blurring images and sounds and sound of whirls and whirls of machines and HYDRA's machines were unlike anything he had ever seen but it wasn't like he could comprehend that through the pain.

 

At least Steve wasn't here to witness his weakness.

 

* * *

 

 

The good life didn't seem so bad.

 

The good life didn't seem so sad.

 

He had stopped trying to distinguish night from day. His natural clocks had been completely destroyed. Either he'd black out because of the pain, pass out because of exhaustion or he'd be up all night because of cocktails they'd pump into his body and the fear and because of their senseless torture. Bucky knew he wasn't getting  _close_ to the amount of sleep he needed, or the nutrients, or anything. He hadn't been able to move his arms for how long? Time became superficial. The only thing he had were memories, identity. They had yet to take those from him. They put machines that formed bruises on his cheekbones and forehead and shocked him and made him scream and made him beg for some sort of relief. He was willing to greet death if it'd be his release once and for all. It seemed tempting. He knew he was living on borrowed time. But he could never lose himself. Bucky. No matter how thin the tie was.

 

Bucky would always wonder what Steve was up to. Maybe he had made a different friend.  ~~~~And maybe he had replaced Bucky. Maybe Bucky had been forgotten. It seemed nice. Then Steve wouldn't be in pain when Bucky inevitably never came home. Wherever it was. They always said home is where the heart is. But where is Bucky's heart now? He couldn't say. He didn't know. He wished he did but he was also glad he didn't. If he didn't have a place to return to, he had no purpose other than to fight. To die. To rot away. Away from the sky, the sun, down here. He had come to accept it. Embraced it. It was better than rejecting it. And it became his most prominent thoughts every time they returned, with some new form of torture. His body was torn from all of the needles, machines that they hooked him up to, all of the wounds and cuts and scars. His breaking mind.

 

He was never going to be the same. The hope was draining out of him. He was never going to return to his naïve, "I can do anything" attitude he had when he became Sergeant Barnes.

 

Sometimes, Bucky, as his thoughts wandered to Steve, wanted to know what Steve would think if he saw him now. Steve would be shaking his head.  _"You should be better than this, Bucky."_ He had failed Steve. He had failed his mother. His father. His siblings. Maybe Steve would be laughing, laughing because Bucky was such a joke. Maybe he didn't deserve his identity. Maybe this, endless torture from HYDRA until the day he died, is what he deserved. He could never get rid of that voice, telling him he was nothing, not anymore.

 

What about his mother? Maybe Winnifred Barnes was happy she no longer had her problematic son there. Maybe he was just a nuisance, a burden. Maybe she didn't love him at all. Maybe she had faked the love, the smiles, the laughs. And now, was he a bigger burden? Or maybe HYDRA was giving pain to him because of everything he had done to hurt his mom.

 

His father? George Barnes would be ashamed to have raised such a problem child. To raise such a disgusting, revolting, sorry excuse of a soldier. He deserved this. He deserved this.

 

Or maybe it was HYDRA in his mind. Twisting and turning, growing stronger as he became weaker. His mind was breaking. His heart had shattered. His body was fading. He needed to get out of here. Fast. Maybe so he could take back his mind. Maybe so he could find out the truth. To find out if the ones closest to him

 

Bucky's thought slipped away in his fatigue as he began to mumble his identity like a mantra, something he did so often it had become natural for him. HYDRA wasn't there. Not many sounds. He had to create his own. Just a few to cut the silence  _"Sergeant Barnes, 32557038..."_

 

* * *

  

"Bucky!"

 

That voice. It was familiar. Above the explosions, he was hearing.  _Steve?_

 

Accompanying that familiar voice was a familiar face. Sky-blue eyes, blonde hair. But different. Bigger? Taller. More muscles. Red, white, and blue.  _The flag._  America.  _Had they come to save him?_

 

No, they couldn't have. He was dead. A ghost. They had forgotten him.

 

"Oh my god."

 

So was he dead? Or perhaps a near-death hallucination? Of everything he wanted to see Steve become but he knew he couldn't. Steve could never become  _this_. Not by the laws of the world. This was a conjured image his mind had formed. This wasn't

 

Steve gripped the straps and tore them off.

 

Which meant...

 

 _Was this real?_  

 

Bucky tried to form a question, having broken his muttering, but it came out slow and slurred.

 

"It's me, it's Steve."

 

It took him a moment to register the name, despite knowing who Steve was. But seeing him... "Steve." Bucky couldn't stop a smile from splitting his features as he said the name.

 

"Come on," Steve said, patting his shoulders. He sounded out of breath. Had he run.

 

Bucky reached up and gripped Steve's shoulders, sharp jolts of pain going through his muscles as they were finally used again, after all of the experimentation. He repeated Steve's name again, as if to make sure he still remembered it. Steve helped him off the table, onto his shaky legs. Steve looked up and down at Bucky. He was  _taller_ than Bucky, something Bucky never thought would happen. "I thought you were dead."

 

"I thought you were smaller," Bucky said, looking up at Steve.

 

"Come on, come on," Steve said hurriedly as the sound of an explosion rang out.

 

Even with a foggy, clouded mind, dozens of questions ran through Bucky's head.  _Not now_ , he told himself. Short questions. Short. Quick. Concise.  _Be concise._

 

"What happened to you?" he asked as they stumbled out of the room, Steve supporting Bucky's weight.

 

"I joined the army," Steve responded.

 

"Did it hurt?" Bucky asked as he staggered to walk independently.

 

"A little."

 

"Is it permanent?"

 

"So far."

 

Bucky wasn't entirely sure of where he was going. He was just following Steve - new, tall, muscular Steve, who seemed to know where he was going. They climbed higher in the facility, and as Bucky looked down, he saw the weapons self-destructing. That's what those explosions were...

 

They went up steps, going somewhere, towards the sky. But where was the sun? Steve couldn't make it out. No. Could he? Could they both survive? Bucky had promised. Until the end of the line. Would they both reach that end at the same time?

 

Steve was going fast, and he wasn't as tired as he should be. Bucky followed clumsily behind. Already his legs felt like giving out. But he couldn't. Steve had come this far for _him (he hopes)_. He couldn't. He couldn't. It would mean he was bad. Bad. It would mean he deserved everything HYDRA had done to him.

 

They reached a walkway, bridging them to another platform, a doorway, where they could-

 

"Captain America!"

 

_Oh no._

 

Johann Schmidt, the cursed leader of this fucking Nazi division.

 

What did he call Steve?  _Captain America._ Where did that come from? Steve was a captain now? How long had he been gone?

 

Steve stared across the bridge at Schmidt and-  _Oh no_

 

Arnim Zola.

 

_Get away_

 

"So exciting!" Schmidt said as he gave Zola a case and began to stride towards them. "I'm a great fan of your films."

 

_What?_

 

Steve began to step towards Schmidt. "So," Schmidt said, "Doctor Erskine managed it after all. Not exactly an  _improvement_ , but still... impressive."

 

The name -  _Doctor Erskine_ \- seemed to have pissed Steve off. He gave Schmidt a well-deserved hard punch in the face. The Nazi stumbled back, one hand on his jawline.

 

"You got no idea," Steve spat. Schmidt looked up and  _what was that red part under his eye was that supposed to be there?_

 

"Haven't I?" Schmidt sat as he aimed to hit Steve. Steve brought his star-spangled shield up and blocked it, but Bucky could see the indents of Schmidt's knuckles. 

 

Steve lowered it, but as soon as he did Schmidt brought out a gun and socked Steve across the face. Schmidt must've lost his handle on the gun as it skittered across the thin path. Steve kicked upwards, bringing Schmidt down. Zola pulled a lever and the pathway began to recede in opposite directions. "No matter what lies Erskine told you," Schmidt shouted above the roar of the explosions below, "you see,  _I_ was his greatest success!" He dug his nails into the skin of his collar and began to pull up and he was  _ripping off his skin_. Bucky watched as Schmidt pulled back the skin and revealed he had a fucking  _red skull_ for a face. 

 

Despite the situation, despite all of the thoughts in his head Bucky asked Steve, "You don't have one of those, do you?" 

 

"You are deluded, Captain," Schmidt said, shaking his head slightly. "You pretend to be a simple soldier-" Schmidt tossed the fake skin to the blasts below "-but in reality, you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind." He stepped back onto the platform with Zola. "Unlike you, I embrace it  _proudly._ Without fear!"

 

"Then how come you're running?" Steve barked.

 

Schmidt gave no reply as he stepped into an elevator and the doors slid shut.

 

Bucky could only give it a single thought before he flinched back at the thunder of the continuing detonations below them. Steve looked around, then up. An escape. Steve adjusted his helmet and began to run up the connecting flight of metal, loose stairs, giving Bucky's shoulder a pat. "Let's go. Up."

 

Bucky lumbered behind him, feeling like deadweight as he grabbed the railings for extra support. Steve didn't stop, with only a few glances back to make sure Bucky was following. His ankles were throbbing and he was becoming increasingly dizzy, but he couldn't give up. He forced it all down. At least Steve had to get out of this alive.

 

A metal support beam, thin, jointed at the halfway point, but wide enough for one of them to cross at a time and looking strong enough to do so. "Let's go," Steve said. "One at a time." He helped Bucky climb over the railing and kept a hand on his chest until Bucky steadied his feet on the metal. Bucky angled to the side, sliding one foot after the other, careful  _careful_ he could  _die if he didn't do this right_. Another  _boom_. It jerked down. One foot, he needed to get down at the joint. Another  _bang_ , and Bucky lost his balance, making circles with his arms. It was shaking. He picked up the pace, and as he felt it give away under his feet he leaped and grabbed the railing, pulling himself up and onto the ground.

 

But Steve-

 

"There's gotta be a rope or something!" Bucky shouted. He couldn't leave Steve. Not after they've come so far. They were getting out together or not at all.

 

"Just go!" Steve shouted, waving his arm. "Get out of here!"

 

"No, not without you!"

 

He was going with Steve or neither of them would make it out. _To the end of the line._ Even if the end of the line was now, it was a promise Bucky was keeping.

  

Steve was breathing heavy now, looking around for something,  _anything_. He looked down in front of him, in the small broken piece of steel in the rails, and he  _bent_ it out of the way.

 

_How did Steve become so strong in such a short time?_

 

Steve backed up, as far as he could go, and then, he ran and jumped.

 

* * *

 

Bucky had never felt quite as proud to be an American as when they had finally returned to an Allied base, followed by four hundred freed prisoners. He had had a good night to regain his thoughts, move around, and he felt  _so proud_ of himself for surviving. And with  _Steve_ as this new super soldier. All four hundred of them were greeted by all of the soldiers there, and he stood right by Steve as Steve saluted to a general. "Some of these men need medical attention," he said, and before he even finished medics were rushing towards the soldiers with injuries. "I would like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."

 

"That won't be necessary," the general responded as he looked back and over at the other freed POWs.

 

"Yes, sir," Steve confirmed after a beat of silence.

 

The general looked back at a female officer, a youthful dame with glowing pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. "Faith, huh?" he said to her before he walked off. The dame looked at Steve, taking a moment as she came up to him.

 

There was something between this woman and Steve. Had Steve  _finally_ gotten a girlfriend? Bucky wouldn't have been surprised. Now that he had become beefy, and as much as he hated to admit that women would start looking at Steve's body they'd also find his great personality. "You're late," she said.

 

Steve pulled out a broken radio and turned it so the girl could see the front side. "Couldn't call my ride," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

It stirred a weird feeling in Bucky, he'd give it that.

 

"Hey!" Bucky shouted, turning towards the other liberated prisoners. "Let's hear it for Captain America!"

 

The crowd burst into applause and cheers, Bucky giving his best friend, that little kid from Brooklyn, a large smile. Steve returned the smile, large and bright. He looked away, at the freed prisoners, at the soldiers.

 

But to Bucky, smiling was like flexing a muscle. It collapsed as soon as Steve looked away, and Bucky couldn't stop the thoughts that followed.  _He doesn't need me anymore,_ he thought. Bucky had always felt like Steve's personal bodyguard, looking out for him, but now... Steve could hold his own.

 

But he was still proud of Steve. He had accomplished on his own what an entire battalion might not have been able to achieve. He had fought his way here, literally and metaphorically. He had become a super soldier, the face of America and Bucky couldn't be more proud of him. He had been with this kid, ever since they were children. And now, as adults, all of that effort had paid off.

 

He felt so proud of Steve, he almost wanted to take credit. Steve had told him he came to rescue Bucky. (Though Bucky suspected that it was more to save the 107th - if he remembered correctly, and if Steve wasn't lying, Steve already thought Bucky was dead when he first came into the facility. But it was still a nice thought.) But no, it was too selfish. And he wasn't the center of Steve's world, he knew. Just a part of it. 

 

  _Just a part._

 

* * *

 

Bucky was invisible. He was no longer the big, strong, handsome sergeant. He was a survivor, he had triumphed over death, but he was a shadow. Steve was the light. Bucky was the shadow. He never thought it'd turn around, not like this. He never thought Steve would become bigger, stronger, faster,  _better_. He never thought that women would start ignoring him in favor of Steve. He had to be honest, it hurt. But he couldn't tell Steve that. It wasn't his fault. He deserved that. Bucky was due to be overlooked.

 

He wasn't jealous, not at all. For the longest time, to be flirted with, to have girls turn their heads to just  _look_  at him, was what Steve had earned. But it stung to be invisible like this. Was this how Steve always felt, back when he was still small and scrawny? Maybe. And maybe Bucky was going through everything _he_ deserved, now that Steve wouldn't suffer for him. The torture, the experiments, the pain and the loneliness and the hopelessness.

 

He couldn't voice his feelings. It'd make him weaker, and he couldn't deal with that, not after already being humiliated and abused and  _broken_ and beaten to the ground and he was still bleeding. There were more scars on his mind and spirit than on his body. They were still bleeding. He couldn't sleep. He would wake up in cold sweat because of nightmares that had become so vivid it was close to reliving it and that was the last thing Bucky needed. And yet, he was glad it was him. Nobody else needed to be going through that. Nobody else needed to be living in a hell within their own mind, with no place to run and nobody to talk to. Steve would laugh at him if he spoke up.  _He had to keep it on the inside_.

 

* * *

 

A group. A squadron. The Howling Commandos. He was a sergeant, still, but Steve was a captain and they were leading one of the most elite units in all of the Allied army. He never imagined himself coming this far. There was a certain thrill that came with being in a battle, fighting off HYDRA. A certain  _feeling_ that was miles ahead of being called  _Sergeant_ and only beaten by seeing Steve look at him as if he was the world. He was doing something, making a change for the better, helping others. Their victories were celebrated. Nobody died. They were too efficient, and their small number proved useful, for once.

 

And for once he was able to bury his sad thoughts. The Howling Commandos provided happier memories, things to help beat down what HYDRA had done. The parties, the jokes and the sincerity of his laughs and joy, the twinges in his cheeks from smiling so much.

 

What made him happier, though, was seeing Steve look so  _alive_. He grinned, he laughed and it was the first time Steve had more friends than just Bucky. There would be nights where they were up just talking, drinking, playing games.

 

(Bucky found it hard to get drunk, opposed to how he normally was. He had always been healthy and a bit of a heavyweight, but it took him longer than others to get drunk. Steve didn't drink, at least not very often, so at least Bucky had a competent person to talk to.)

 

And the nights where they were camping out in the snow, where it was cold and Bucky felt cold, he would curl up next to Steve like they did when they were kids and he would feel warmer, safer.

 

Steve made him feel safe. Untouchable. Like it was just Steve and him. No war. No cold and no mud and no killing, no Nazis and no .

 

Just Steve and him.

 

* * *

 

They were on a perch in the mountains. If successful, maybe they could finally catch a Hydra soldier, and get some steps ahead. Bucky was ready to do it. Even if there was a dull thought that told him something was wrong, that something was going to  _go_ wrong, he pushed it onto the fact that it was Zola. He hated Zola. He remembered that spectacled face hovering over him and he injected Bucky with God knows what. He was just glad he wasn't dead. Not when all the others seemed to fall away. He could see Steve this way. He could keep Steve happy and alive, he could help with the war effort.

 

And yet, knowing that others had died and he had lived, hurt. How was it fair that he got to live but they didn't? What was special about him? He felt so  _guilty_ , as if it was somehow his fault.

 

But he couldn't think like that, so Bucky pushed it down, never let himself think of it. He distracted himself however he could - with memories, jokes, the other soldiers, the war effort. Anything to keep it off his mind and so far it was working.

 

He brought up Coney Island as the train was coming closer. "Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?"

 

"Yeah, and I threw up?"

 

"This isn't payback for it, is it?"

 

Bucky hoped it lightened the mood just a little. Steve's tone was teasing as he said, "Now why would I do that?"

 

"We were right, Doctor Zola's on the train," Jones said. "HYDRA dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad."

 

James Montgomery Falsworth held up his binoculars to look for the train. "Let's get going, because they're moving like the devil," Falsworth said as he lowered his binoculars.

 

Steve made sure his zipline was set up. Then he turned to his fellow Commandos. "We only got about a ten-second window! You miss that window, we're bugs on a windshield."

 

"Mind the gap," Falsworth said.

 

"Better get movin', bugs!" Dugan said.

 

As soon as they were given the get-go, they ziplined from their perch to the train. Bucky went after Steve, with Jones following. Bucky's heart hammered in his chest and the blood roared in his ears over the train. Bucky was thankful that they landed successfully, but they still kept low to the ground. They hurried along the train, trying to find an entrance that didn't mean trying to swing over the side to kick through a door. Steve found a ladder and began to climb down it. Bucky looked towards Jones, who cocked his gun and nodded.  _He'll stay on top._ Okay. That was okay. It meant Bucky could go with Steve.

 

Steve squeezed through a blast door into an empty carriage (nothing but steel crates). Bucky slid the short done. They walked through the carriage, which was similar to the last sans a side door, guns at the ready and Steve's shield held up, silently, searching for Zola. He needed to

 

No, he couldn't think like that.

 

Steve crossed into the next carriage, Bucky able to see his caution. As he was about to follow, the door suddenly slid shut.

 

 _What_ -

 

Steve pressed against the doors, and then, Bucky understood.

 

_This was another ambush._

 

He whirled around. Three armed HYDRA soldiers.  _Fuck_. He raised his gun and fired, hiding behind the boxes. Gunshots rang in his ears. Both his own and theirs. He got one of the HYDRA soldiers through the head. One down, two to go. He hid behind the crates to avoid the bullets coming towards him. He ran out of ammunition in his rifle after he killed the second. He dropped his rifle and pulled out his pistol. Bucky pressed against the containers to keep clear of the bullets. He came out to fire. Several times. Not a single bullet hit. But thankfully the HYDRA soldier didn't come out to directly fight.

 

Bucky raised to shoot again. Again. Agai-  _it ran out_. 

 

But the HYDRA- they still had ammo.

 

His heart was hammering harder now. He took a shaky breath, pressing against the wall this time.  _Was he going to die_? After years of service, this was how it ended.

 

 _Steve_. Still on the other side of the door, on a different carriage.

 

He prepared to die. For Steve. Steve saved him. Damn well he'd die for him. He knew something like this might come eventually - perhaps it would, entirely. Was it here?

 

The door slid open and Steve tossed him another pistol. He charged and hit the crate the soldier was hiding behind, forcing the HYDRA soldier to the side.

 

Aiming his gun at his head, Bucky fired.

 

Steve was safe.

 

He was safe.

 

He hadn't died. His end wouldn't come now. Bucky had overcome death more times than once and this was just another one of them. Not that it made it any less real.

 

"I had him on the ropes," Bucky claimed.

 

"I know you did," Steve assured.

 

A charging sound, all too familiar, unwelcomed-

 

"Get down!"

 

A blast of blue struck Steve's shield, knocking him down and blowing a hole through the side of the train.

 

Steve was on the ground. His shield was in front of Bucky.

 

Bucky stood up, shield in hand. He fired twice, but it didn't hit.

 

The HYDRA soldier fired his assault rifle and it struck, blasting him back. He felt his body impact with the hanging part of the train, and he scrambled for something  _something_ , a rail-

 

"Bucky!"

  
He could see Steve's face. He was scared, too. He began to inch forward, holding onto a good rail. "Hang on!" He was coming closer. "Grab my hand!" He outstretched one arm and Bucky tried to get closer. The rail was breaking because of Bucky's weight. So close. Just a little more.  _So close_

 

It gave out.  _It snapped._

 

And suddenly Bucky was falling.

 

He couldn't help but scream. He could see the horror on Steve's face.

 

His left arm was sharply severed and the blinding pain

 

But all he could think of was Steve.

 

_At least it was me, not you._

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes. English is not my first language.


End file.
